Scandalous
by MGMK
Summary: Washington D.C. is full of powerful people, people who make mistakes. And when they do, it's up to Santana Lopez to fix them.
1. Blurred Lines

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

 **Author's Note:** Hello. So, this is the continuation of the first part of the series, also entitled _Scandalous_ , and it picks up exactly where the last series left off. You can catch up on it if you'd like at my tumblr. Rating may increase for future chapters. **Trigger Warning: This story contains the characters of Sam Evans and Finn Hudson, so if those two are not for you then you might want to avoid. Also, this chapter includes character death.**

* * *

 **Chapter One: Blurred Lines**

* * *

"Stay tuned for our next segment on the Sandy Bill after these-" Kenny nearly jumps when his earpiece screeches dramatically – or rather the person on the other end of it does.

"I'm sorry," he says haltingly, still looking into the camera with a fixed smile that falls almost instantly when the sounds in his ear finally make sense. "I'm…what? Wow. Okay. I've…I've just been informed that there has been an explosion at the White House. Our field correspondent Marley Rose is live on location and –"

Kenny's panicked face is replaced by a windswept Marley Rose, microphone in hand as the White House – America's lasting visage of democracy and freedom – is blackened by fire in the background.

"I'm here at the White House Kenny," she announces, "As you can see, the fire still burns behind me and there are crews already in place to extinguish the flames. We don't have a lot of details at the moment as this _just happened_ but again, just a few moments ago, at approximately 5:25 this evening, the ground shook with what I can only assume at this point was an explosion."

"Shut those cameras off!" a uniformed agent yells, approaching them and the video camera swings in his direction only catching a glimpse of his face before being covered by a heavy palm.

"Hey!" Marley yells, the sounds of a scuffle intercutting with the camera's jerky movements, "You can't do that! We're exercising our first amendment rights!"

"Yeah, well, take it up with SCOTUS. Now, off my goddamn lawn!"

The video feed cuts out.

* * *

"Any sign of 'em yet?"

Combing through the debris – the turned over table and chairs, the shattered dinnerware and tarnished cutlery – is an arduous task but one she's been assigned and Madison wants more than anything to do a good job.

If only just to show up her hotshot, biotech engineer twin brother, Mason.

"McCarthy," Dr. Washington asks, drawing the girl's attention again. "Earth to creepy always smiling white girl?"

"Yes Roz, I mean Dr. Roz, I mean," Madison shakes her head, "Dr. Washington?"

The doctor just stares at the younger woman, shifting to put her hands on both hips, "Have you found any dead white people yet?"

"There's nothing of substance over here," Madison answers, shaking her head. "I have found what appears to be a half-cooked portion of chicken breast," she adds, holding up her find with a lopsided smile.

Dr. Washington rolls her eyes. "Keep looking."

Turning back to the discolored, smoldering piles of char – she's still slightly in awe of how quickly they contained and extinguished the fire, almost as if it were planned – Madison digs her hands in again, carefully pulling back the soaked, fire-destroyed soot until her latex-covered fingers close on something that doesn't pull away quite so easily.

Frowning, Madison shifts her grip, wrapping her fingers around the oddly shaped object, and tugs a little harder, bringing whatever it is to the top of the pile.

She almost faints when she sees what it is.

She'd recognize the ring anywhere; after all, he liked to brag about that game _a lot_.

So, it's with sickening clarity that Madison realizes, in her grasp, is the charred lifeless hand of President Samuel Evans.

* * *

 _ **September 17, 2016**_

 _Sugar and Rachel are brushing down Sam's suit and carrying about the overall business of beautification when Santana strides back into the room, Blackberry in hand._

" _Okay, everything's set up. You're going to walk into the room, shake a few hands and then beeline directly to table seventeen. She's wearing a blue dress and there's a white flower tucked behind her ear. You've seen pictures so you honestly shouldn't be able to miss her. She's somewhat shy, so that's something that you'll have to work around, but other than that…"_

 _Santana trails off, her eyes scrutinizing the firm set of Sam's shoulders. "Are you okay?" she asks him._

" _Tell me again why we're doing this," Sam says, after chewing on his lower lip, nervously twisting the college championship ring on his right fourth finger._

 _Silently, Santana waves off Rachel and Sugar who step away without a single word, though the looks they direct Santana's way say just about everything they might have vocalized anyway. Waiting until they're a safe distance away, Santana takes Sam by the shoulders and looks down at him, her face serious._

" _We're doing this because you want to be senator. We're doing this because you won't be senator unless you're in a committed relationship. We're doing this because she comes from a conservative background so it'll be perceived as her having some influence over your extremely liberal stances," Santana says, matter-of-factly. She pauses here, the break enough to make Sam's eyes rise to meet her own. "But, mostly, we're doing this because you_ asked _me to. …Say the word, Sam. Just let me know and this'll all be undone. It's your call."_

 _The room feels unbearably silent, even though just down a short corridor there's a somewhat raucous fundraiser in full tilt._

 _She watches him closely; almost able to see the cogs turning in his head and, for a moment, she thinks he may be about to make a choice._

 _The right choice._

 _But then, Sam blinks, and the moment is lost._

" _One last thing though," Sam asks, shaking his head in the negative as his eyes regain their steely focus. "Is she hot?" he asks, smirking playfully and she rolls her eyes, shoving him back gently._

" _You're an ass," she chastises lightly, her eyes shining with mirth. "But, for the record, yes."_

 _Santana motions for him to stand up before leading him over to the hotel ballroom's entrance. "Just be your charming self and you'll do fine."_

 _Taking one last deep breath, Sam squares his shoulders and enters the room, a loud cheer sounding immediately after. She enters shortly after, and falls into a lightweight conversation about horseracing with some small-town mayor, but she can't really pay attention. Her eyes are too focused on tracking Sam's movements and when he finally makes it to table seventeen and Brittany's eyes light up, she loses track of the conversation altogether._

* * *

"Oh my God," Jake says, staring out of the front windshield at the billowing black smoke vanishing into the atmosphere.

Santana stares at her phone in shock. The line dead and Brittany…no, she won't go there.

"What the hell are you stopping for?" she yells at the agent who's charged with driving. "I didn't say stop."

"But Ma'am, protocol says," the agent says.

"Fuck protocol!" she snaps. "Protocol says that a bomb shouldn't fucking blow up in the White House, but, alas," she trails off, gesturing to the ruckus in the distance.

Santana taps her message icon, instantly opening the thread dedicated to her text conversations with Brittany.

 _I feel like you're making your 'extra-thinky' face right now. You are, aren't you?_

 _Morning sleepyhead, hope you have a great day! What am I saying, of course you will You're coming to see me, lol._

 _The Ambassador to Switzerland just left me some chocolate and I don't think I've ever had anything better in my mouth._

 _I can literally hear your 'wanky'._

 _I miss you. You and your cocoa eyes._

She scrolls through her own sent messages:

 _I know I just left you but I already want to come back._

 _I just crossed paths with the most gigantic cat and instantly I thought of you and Lord Tubbington. Mostly you though._

 _I'm thinking I might cook you something for our next date but you can't make fun of it. Especially if it's Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Did I mention I can't really cook?_

The words glowing back at her are almost enough to distract her from the seriousness of the current situation but then she sees…

 _Brittany?_

 _Brittany, text me back right now_

 _Brittany, come on, you're scaring me_

And so on, and so forth, each message from Santana more frantic than the next because one minute she's asking Brittany to trust her and the next Brittany is-

No.

She _will not_ go there.

Closing her phone, Santana blinks back on her smooth demeanor, sliding the device into her jacket pocket.

"You should take the next left," she informs the driver. "We're not going to be able to get close enough by car."

"We're hoofing it?" Jake asks, still staring out of the window for what reason, Santana doesn't even know.

"Unless you have a more feasible mode of transportation," she says smoothly, folding her fingers together in her lap.

"I don't get how you're so calm about all of this," Jake says, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "The White House is on fire, your best guy has gone off the deep end, and we don't know where the President or the First Lady are and if they are okay or-"

"Brittany's fine," Santana interrupts him.

"How do you-" Jake starts, looking at her closely. "How do you know?"

Santana merely shrugs. "I'd feel it if she weren't," she says, almost to herself before she knees the back of the driver's seat. "You drive slower than my Abuela and she'd dead. Move it."

"Yes Ma'am," the agent murmurs, accelerating a bit more.

"This can't be happening," Jake murmurs, shaking his head. "It just can't."

"It is," she says to him, sitting back as coolly as she can manage when the car pulls forward again.

* * *

 _ **September 4, 2016**_

" _This can't be happening," Mercedes murmurs, forearm covering up her eyes. "It just can't."_

 _The couch they're sitting on seems to be swallowing her whole as she sinks further and further into it the more violently the sobs wrack her body._

 _Santana, relegated to the task of helpless bystander since she's under contract and they all knew that this was going to happen eventually, only swallows thickly before reaching out to the coffee table and grabbing both glasses of wine._

" _It is," she assures Mercedes softly, with no intention of being callous and yet the finality of her statement sets her friend's anguished sobs anew._

" _How could he just…" Mercedes trails off, shaking her head quickly as she drops her arm, her tear-soaked eyelids puffy. "I thought he loved me."_

" _He does love you, Mercedes," Santana says, handing the glass of wine to the woman and encouraging her to drink._

" _Then how could he-"_

" _He loves himself more," Santana cuts her off, raising her shoulders in a gesture that implies the explanation is that simple._

 _Perhaps it is._

 _Mercedes takes a sip of the wine, and Santana watches her closely as she follows suit._

" _Look, Mercedes," she says, squaring her shoulders so as to convey seriousness. Mercedes needs to get over this now. "You are fierce and phenomenal and if Sam is too selfish to come to that realization on his own, then that's his loss, okay? We're going to be the top bitches in D.C. and we don't need any pesky romantic entanglements getting in the way of our goals, right? Love is entirely overrated."_

 _Mercedes just blinks, takes another sip of her wine. "I can't wait to see how you are the day that it happens."_

 _Santana's brow furrows. "When what happens?"_

" _When you fall in love," the woman answers quietly, draining the wine in one go before shifting to lie down on the couch, her head pillowed in Santana's lap._

* * *

"Grilled Cheesus, man!" Finn yells, still unable to shake the feeling of the ground moving beneath him. "What the hell was that?!"

Senator Fabray looks just as shocked, her face literally going pale with fright. "I…I don't know."

"An earthquake in D.C.? But, no, there was that loud BOOM."

The alarm system is on blast, horns blaring and lights flashing, informing everyone to evacuate the building.

"Come on," Quinn says, panic forcing her into action as she grabs Finn's hand and stands, "We have to get out of here."

"We can't just leave, Quinn," Finn says, snatching his hand away. "There's protocol. For all we know, the nation's capital is under attack."

"Well we can't just stay here!" Quinn yells back, beyond scared.

She's full on panicked now.

 _It wasn't supposed to happen like this._

No sooner than she finishes yelling is Senator Fabray's door forced open, two hulking secret service agents pushing themselves inside.

"Mr. Vice President, we're going to need you to come with us."

Finn, shielding Senator Fabray behind him, eyes the secret service men warily. "I demand to know what's going on."

The agents glance at one another and then Senator Fabray. "That's classified, Sir."

"I'm the Vice President, goddamn it," Finn yells, the non-information causing him to segue into pure annoyance. "Un-classify it."

"It's above her pay grade," Agent number two says, pointing to the Senator.

"Look you overgrown, oily, overpaid pawns," Quinn snarls, "This is your Vice-President and when he asks questions, he gets answers. There is _no_ hesitation."

"Yeah," Finn says, stepping in front of the woman again, "What she said. Now, what the hell is going on?"

Agent Number one steps forward, tugging the earpiece out of his ear reverently. "The President of the United States is dead."

* * *

Santana is starting to get annoyed.

She doesn't like not being in control and with everything that's happened, the evening's events clearly following some warped destined path, she is not in the mood for the frivolity of idiotic meatheads.

Currently, she's debating just how lethal a well-timed swing from her six-inch heel would be.

"Stand down, Agent," Jake commands again, his jaw set in a hardened line.

"Agent Puckerman, we've been given strict orders to-"

"By whom? I'm command," Jake hisses, hitting the man standing in front of their path squarely in the chest. "You take orders from me."

"Not anymore," a second agent says, never breaking from his stoic, determined demeanor.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" Jake yells but Santana's had enough, roughly squeezing past Jake and stepping up to the men who shift closer together, forming rank.

"The same thing goes for you, sweetheart," the second agent – the one with a bit of an attitude it seems – says and Santana just slowly takes off her sunglasses, a slow smirk forming on her lips as she tucks them away neatly in her blazer's pocket.

Then, quick as a shot, she reaches out with both hands and grabs both men's crotches and Jake can tell by the looks on their faces, she ain't being too gentle.

Both agents whimper pathetically as Santana squeezes, gritting her teeth with the effort of it.

"Agent Puckerman and I need to get into the Roosevelt room and you boys are going to very kindly escort us with no problem because I assume neither one of you want to end up being the most ridiculously over-sized, over-aged members of the Vienna Boys' Choir. Am I right?"

The men nod, hissing and shaking.

Jake winces in sympathy.

"Okay then," Santana says, promptly letting go and dusting her hands off. The agents literally slump over with relief. "We're all set, Jake."

* * *

Finn doesn't even feel like he's in his own body anymore.

Ever since the agents told him about…about Sam, it seems like he's barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other.

Politicians and their aides scramble about, emergency personnel litter nearly every corridor of the White House, and with all this chaos one would think Finn would be equally as flummoxed, equally prone to flit about directionless from one room to the next.

He's not though.

Instead, he floats by it all calmly, letting the two service agents who'd come to retrieve him in the first place direct him.

"Right through here, Mr. Vice President," the larger of the two men says, holding open the door to a darkened room and Finn enters stiltedly, barely noticing the other men gathered around the small conference table rise to salute him.

"Have a seat, Sir," one of the standing men says, closing the top button of his suit jacket as Finn sits down. He looks vaguely familiar but Finn's still so numb to everything that the name just won't come to the forefront of his mind.

"Sir, I'm sure you're aware of the situation," the man says, distributing four folders to all the people sitting around the table. "The intelligence we've gathered suggests that the bomb originated in southwest corner of the Roosevelt room. Preliminary reports show that the bomb was probably homegrown, though we're still investigating the materials used to create it. There were two sets of remains on site that we've identified as Melanie Brown – one of the sous chefs here at the White House – and Dorrie Cox, one of the newly hired aides."

Finn opens the file in his hands, his fingers trembling as he turns the page to review the photos and reports.

"Sir," the man – Finn squints to see his badge – or rather Director Porter prompts, noting Finn's hesitancy. "Shall I continue, Mr. Vice-President?"

"Of course," Finn nods, inhaling a sharp breath, not noticing the shared looks of the persons surrounding him.

"Paramedics were able to retrieve both Mrs. Evans and Service Agent Wilde and both women were taken to the hospital in critical condition. The early prognoses look positive. Lastly, Sir, code names Potus, Flotus, and C.O.S. are all unaccounted for at this present time."

"Wait, unaccounted for?" Finn says, his brow furrowing once that sentence cuts through the fog, "They're not dead?"

Secretary Porter looks at the people around him one more time before affirming. "There is no indication that those persons were in the room at the time of the explosion, Sir."

"Well, then," Finn asks, finally showing signs of life, "Where are they?"

"We think they've been kidnapped."

* * *

"And what do we have here?"

Jake narrows his eyes and Santana looks on as the man she's spent the majority of her day with hardens in a way she hasn't witnessed until this moment. His spine stiffens and his hands curl slowly into tight fists.

He looks ready to pounce.

"What are you doing here, Meeks?" he murmurs dangerously.

"My damn job."

"You don't work here," Jake dismisses easily, gesturing for Santana to follow him. "C'mon, Ms. Lopez. This guy's a waste of our time."

"You can't go in there Puckerman," Meeks says, smirking. "You don't have the clearance." At his words a whole mass of service agents form rank, blocking Jake and Santana's progress.

"I don't have the clearance?" Jake laughs, indignant. "I outrank you."

"Not as of an hour ago you don't. I've been appointed by the Secretary of Defense herself," Agent Meeks declares. "Seems like security was getting a little sloppy around here."

Jake starts at the man but Santana pulls him back, maintaining her composure. "I don't have time for this pissing contest. Now, listen you fortieth man in black extra I've seen today, are you going to let Agent Puckerman and I in or not?"

"Trust me," Meeks leers, his eyes dropping down to check her out, "I'd really like to help you out, babe, but my hands are totally tied."

"Puckerman, what is this jockstrap's name?" Santana asks, folding her arms across her chest.

"Meeks," Jake says, still looking none too pleased, "Roderick Meeks."

"It was an…experience meeting you, Agent Meeks," Santana says, pasting on a fake, pleasant smile, "And hopefully my smiling visage will stay with you because I promise you this'll be exactly what I look like the day I have your credentials. Let's go Agent Puckerman."

Jake grins at the completely gob-smacked look on Agent Meeks' face before following Santana.

"You know," he says, picking his way through the people rushing about, "you kind of scare me sometimes."

Santana smirks. "Good."

* * *

Something warm is trickling down the side of Sam's face.

That's the first thing he becomes aware of when he finally comes to. Forcing open his eyes, ignoring the searing pain from his right temple, Sam scours the darkness for something, _anything_ that might be familiar and he jumps when the first face he sees is the man from before, staring right at him.

Frantic, he tries to move and shout but his arms and legs are immobilized, restrained somehow, and the gag in his mouth mutes any sound to the strength of a dull hum.

"That was a close call," Puck says, bringing up what looks like a tattered shirt to his mouth and biting, tearing the fabric more. "We barely made it out."

"MMMM," Sam starts to yell the best he can, wriggling about, "MMMMM!"

"You shouldn't do that," Puck warns, his voice eerily calm. Producing the radio he'd lifted from a downed agent, he slides it across the small space they're sitting in so that it's resting near Sam's hip. "Go ahead," Puck nods at it. "Have a listen."

" _What do you mean you can't find the bodies? They were all in the dining room, weren't they? …Well keep looking and so help me God if you botch this thing, I'll have you all skewered and flambéed…goddamn, man I'm hungry."_

Sam looks across the way to Puck, eyes questioning.

Puck just keeps tearing strips of cloth. "Somebody tried to kill you. And I don't know why or who it is. But, until I do, Mr. President. You're staying with me. All of you."

Sam tilts his head in question but Puck doesn't say anything more. He just crawls over the short distance to the left where Brittany and Mercedes are both propped up, neither woman appearing to be conscious.

"Yeah," Puck says, securing a tie more tightly around Mercedes's ankles, "Staying right here with me."

* * *

"Can you wait the hell up?" Jake asks, hurrying behind her while still trying to walk.

They've left the plaza after being stonewalled in every possible way – the nation's capital really grinds to a halt in the midst of crisis. "I thought we were trying to _not_ look like we were fleeing the scene of a crime."

"I'm not rushing. This is how I usually walk."

"Why are we leaving anyway? You do realize that now we have even less answers than we started with. Not to mention that my security clearance is worth less than a-" Jake stops abruptly when Santana shoves a phone into his face – her phone.

"What…is that?" Jake says, peering at the odd combination of letters and numbers.

"It's a cypher, obviously," Santana says dryly, studying the message on the screen again and resuming her walk. "What the hell kind of secret agent are you?"

Jake just rolls his eyes. "Well, what does it say? Wait, who's it from?" the man asks, scrambling to catch up again.

But before he can get any answers, a white van screeches around the corner a block down, hurtling right in their direction.

"We're gonna _die_ ," Jake screeches, squeezing his eyes closed tightly and covering up his head with his arms when the van doesn't appear to be slowing down.

…

"Is he going to stay like that or-?" Sugar asks, leaning across Rachel to yell out of the window.

"What the-" Jake says, peeking open one eye.

"You guys couldn't find anything less conspicuous?" Santana asks them calmly she steps forward, hands on her hips.

"Hey," Artie says, sliding open the side door, "It was either this or an ice cream truck and an ice cream truck lurking around the White House right now would look pretty sketchy."

"And an unmarked white van doesn't?" Santana asks, climbing aboard when Artie offers her a hand up. Jake climbs in after her.

"Not when it's full of plumbing equipment," Sugar says from up front. "And plumbers," she adds, jerking her thumb to the uniform hanging in the cargo hold. "There's one there for you too, Agent Puckerman but it might be a size or two, too short. You're taller than you look. And act."

"Did you bring it?" Santana asks Sugar, sliding into the seat next to Artie.

"Yes," Sugar says, pulling the folded up napkin out of her bra, still mostly concentrating on driving. "I don't get what you want with a bunch of scrambled letters though."

"Santana," Rachel interrupts from the front passenger seat, her eyes intently focused on the other woman, "What is going on? Is the President…is Brittany…?"

All day she's been tiptoeing around the subject but now, now that she's not in the presence of some hotshot secret agent or surrounded by media personnel, now that she's ensconced within her inner circle, her team – no, her _family_ looking at her intently, awaiting answers and trusting – _always_ trusting – that she'll be able to provide them with them…

It's now that Santana finally falls apart, her eyes growing unfocused as they fill with tears.

"I don't know," she murmurs, the words squeezed out as if through a vice. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," she repeats, again and again, sobbing harder with every newly uttered declaration.

"Shh," Artie soothes, pulling her into a tight embrace. "We'll figure this out, boss lady. We always do."

Santana, the woman who usually has all of the answers, can't do anything but hope he's right.

* * *

 _ **August 26, 2016**_

" _Santana Lopez and associates, please hold," Rachel says into the phone's receiver, determined eyes set on the retreating form of her boss' back." Santana, may I talk to you for a moment?"_

 _Slowly, Santana's steps peter out and she turns around, her eyes already filled with annoyance. "What do you want Rachel?"_

 _Rachel swallows, always intimidated by the other woman – and honestly, who wouldn't be? It's Santana freaking Lopez. "When I took this job on I thought I'd be_ doing _something. This is law firm yes, and I am a lawyer. Graduated top ten in my class. Surely, you don't want someone of my ilk and caliber relegated to the role of glorified receptionist."_

 _Sugar, strolling by with a stack of files, whispers, "She totally does."_

" _Sugar…" Santana warns._

" _That was my Asperger's."_

" _Look, Rachel," Santana starts, folding her fingers together in front of her primly, "I want you to think of this place as a well-oiled machine. Now, me? I'd consider myself the lubrication. I touch everything and without me, nothing works. That's pretty straightforward? Sugar, Artie, and Puck? They're big parts of the machine, too. The operating parts. And we've been functioning more than fine according to my estimation, wouldn't you say so?"_

 _Rachel nods._

" _Now, you, Rachel? You're a cog in this machine – an extra, spare cog. An insurance policy, if you will. Thusly, you'll only be called upon when needed. And if my previous statements haven't already made it abundantly clear," Santana says, raising an eyebrow, "You're not needed."_

 _Rachel, flabbergasted, merely gulps._

" _So," Santana says, preparing to leave again, "If that's all you had to say to m-"_

" _You're wrong."_

 _Santana almost trips over her own feet. "Excuse me?" she asks, fixing Rachel with a look so pointed it should hurt._

" _You're wrong," Rachel repeats, opening the desk drawer and pulling out a folder. "I know you're wrong because you guys haven't located a suitable match for Mr. Evans and the election is approaching quickly and if anything is to be believable at all, it needs to be happening now. So…" Rachel says, opening the portfolio, "…I've compiled a few candidates that would be perfect."_

 _Reluctantly, almost against her will, Santana takes a slight step forward. "How did you-"_

 _Rachel smiles now, feeling more at ease. "The best lawyers are incredibly nosey, Santana."_

 _Santana huffs out a little laugh, stepping over to review the files, all neatly labeled, coordinated, and detailed._

" _Tell me about…Brittany S. Pierce," she tells Rachel, slipping through the woman's section. She listens but she stops hearing Rachel after a while when she comes across the 8 by 10 inch photo of the woman in question._

 _Her mind only whispering a quiet, "She's the one."_

* * *

"Sorry Boss," Puck mumbles, taking the blindfold off of her eyes gently, "I didn't want to put you out but I'm already risking too much as it is by bringing you here."

Santana feels groggy, her eyes heavy and unfocused as they try to remain open. "Wha…where?"

"It's a safe place, I promise," Puck whispers, scooting away from her after he props her up against one of the many crates littering the small clearing. "I'll be right back."

Santana's head lolls from one shoulder to the other; her limbs entirely useless as she peers through the dark, gaze still foggy as she tries to follow Puck's retreating form.

"Mrs. First Lady," she hears Puck ask, voice hesitant, "Will you come with me?"

"Fuck you," Santana hears next, and the sound of the voice sends her pulse fluttering but she still can't seem to wake herself up enough to even speak.

"Pu…Puck," she tries to call, her mouth feeling like it's been filled with sawdust.

A gasp.

The slits Santana is using to see through makes out something moving rapidly in the shadows, something that collapses to the floor beside her.

On an inhaled breath, she knows who it is immediately.

"Bri…" she tries to say, trying to move, to open her eyes, to do anything other than lie there like a sack of potatoes but it's to no avail.

"Yes, baby, it's me," Brittany whispers, shifting as close as she can without falling, a task made unbearably more difficult by her hands being tied behind her back. "It's me."

"Britt," Santana whispers out again, catching glimpses of the woman knelt before her.

"What have you done to her?" Brittany cries.

"She's fine," Puck says, hugging his arms to his body. "She'll be fine. Trust me."

"Trust you?!" Brittany yells, laughing darkly. "You kidnapped me. You've obviously drugged Santana. Why the hell would I trust you?"

"Because she's the only family I've got!" Puck explodes, chest heaving. "I will _not_ let anything happen to her," he says, much quieter before stepping away, seeking to compose himself.

"Santana," Brittany whispers, turning back to the woman sitting in front of her. She leans down, close enough that her lips are right next to Santana's ear. "I don't know how much of what he's saying is true. He says that someone wants us dead; Sam, Mercedes, and myself. I don't know if he's crazy or not, but if he's not. If you come to and you remember this at all and he's _right_ …. leave it alone, Santana." Brittany nuzzles Santana's cheek with her nose gently, her voice quieting even more, "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

Santana's head shifts, her cheek brushing against Brittany's lips. "No," she grunts out, still fighting the haze.

"Come on," Puck says, suddenly upon them again, Brittany didn't even hear him walk up. "We're out of time."

"Just one mo-"

"No, now come on," Puck snaps, snatching her up as gently as he can and shuffling her away again.

Santana, feeling tears stinging at the corner of her eyes, struggles against her toxic restraints again, managing to push herself forward an inch or so, but, no sooner than she's feeling a little less heavy is Puck back in front of her, brushing the hair off of her face gently.

"Sorry Boss, I gotta take you back," he says, voice as kind as she's ever heard it. "Don't worry. I'll fix everything."

And that's the last thing she hears before she slips into the darkness again.


	2. Connecting the Dots

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Just borrowing.

 **Author's Note:** I was supposed to be working on a movie script yesterday and instead...this. I'm a little bit upset at myself. I'm sorry LK!

* * *

 **Connecting the Dots**

* * *

Quinn sits in her home office, her body tense and rigid.

Outside of her door and on the street in front of her building, armed guards stand watch, and yet, she feels this sense of unease, and she's incapable of shaking it.

After all, the things she knows…they could put her _under_ the jail for them, or worse.

Swallowing nervously, Quinn's reaches out with a shaky hand and grasps the amber-liquor filled tumbler from her desktop, knocking back the last of the drink with nary a grimace. It burns as it spills down her throat, but she welcomes the sensation, needing to feel that pain to purge – punishment for her actions and inaction when it mattered the most.

She's reaching for her quarter-full bottle of Talisker, intending on pouring another two fingers when the music starts playing – an ominous little ditty, nearly identical to Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer" reverberating quietly throughout her cavernous complex.

Confused, because her own cellphone sits silently beside her drink, Quinn's ears strain to locate the origination of the sound, her eyes following as well until she can just barely make out the dull blinking light illuminating the law books on her bookshelf.

Quickly, she makes her way over to it, discovering the cellphone and the _unlisted_ title painted across the screen's surface before she accepts the call immediately, not wanting to alert any of the guards.

"Hello," she whispers, ear pressed to the receiver.

" _Well, well, well_ ," the familiar voice drawls out and the hair on the back of Quinn's neck quivers, " _Look at who_ I _found_."

"How did you-" Quinn stutters, eyes darting around nervously, "What are you- You _broke_ into my apartment?" she finally asks, incredulous.

" _You say that like you're surprised; like you don't know by now that I'm capable of many things_."

Quinn gulps, her free hand idly gliding along the surface of the small bookcase while her other grips the phone tightly. "I am aware of your…capabilities," she concedes.

" _Are you?_ " the voice questions, sounding amused, oddly enough. " _I mean, I thought you were but then you went ahead and did something that I can only classify as utterly idiotic_."

"I'm not sure-"

" _Did you really think I wouldn't find out about Mr. Hudson and his dinner-interrupting rendezvous with you_?" the person on the phone interrupts smoothly, causing Quinn's heart rate to speed up just that little bit more. " _That I don't know_ everything _."_

"I-" Quinn stutters, completely caught off-guard. "I didn't think-"

The voice laughs, nearly cackling. " _Of course you didn't think. You, unlike myself, are utterly inept when it comes to considering every itty, bitty little detail of any scenario because you, unlike myself, have zero capacity for being ruthless. You have too much_ heart _. I used to admire you for it, too, but now I've come to realize that having heart is a liability."_

Quinn presses the phone as close to her ear as possible, detecting something dark in the person's ominous tone.

" _You know_ ," the voice starts, seemingly switching tracks with a lighter, conversational tone of voice, " _I consider myself a businessperson of sorts. I'm constantly comparing my assets and liabilities…I don't like liabilities Quinn and you've gone and made yourself one."_

Quinn swallows. "What are you…what are you going to do to me?"

" _I wouldn't worry about it too much – like most inevitable things, it's best to ignore them – but if you were thinking about running off and trying to get help, know this Senator Fabray: I've got eyes everywhere_."

* * *

Brittany, leans her head back against the wall, trying to figure out what's most annoying about this situation.

She's being held captive by a man who has clearly lost his mind. Even if he is "protecting" them, the fact that he's spent the better part of the last hour tracing his fingers over what looks to her a bare wall is not doing him any favors in asserting his sanity. Her wrists and ankles are irritated from being cinched together for so long and her butt's tired from sitting all the time. She's cold, she's hungry, and she really is getting kind of nauseous from the overly strong smell of pine-sol this place reeks of. She can't talk to Santana – and that one's pretty high up on the list – but, even it doesn't top this latest aggravator.

"Look, the dude's freakishly strong, okay? Like the Hulk," he whispers.

"How do you know he's like the Hulk? Have you ever fought the Hulk?" she whispers back, snappily.

His eyebrows raise. "Well no, but hypothetically-"

She rolls her eyes. "Then you can't say he's like the Hulk."

"Well, Mercedes, when you're speaking in hypotheticals-"

"We don't have time for hypotheticals, Sam. Do these look like hypothetical handcuffs on my wrists?"

"Oh my God, shut up," Brittany groans, rather loudly, having had enough. "You guys are more annoying than Pokes-At-The-Wall over there."

"I'm just saying," Mercedes demurs, though less adamantly than before, "Sam should step up and be a man."

"Hey Miss Equal Rights Advocate," Sam objects with a hissed whisper, "Why don't _you_ woman up?"

"Can it, the both of you," Brittany whispers, blinking tiredly, "All of this debate is pointless, okay?" she explains, nodding towards Puck. "That guy is nuttier than a payday. Eventually, he'll slip up and then we'll make our move," she explains, letting her head fall back against the wall she's propped up against. "Until then, we wait."

Mercedes sits back with a huff, rolling her eyes, but then she leans her head against Sam's shoulder regardless.

Brittany settles back too, glad that they've finally quieted for the moment but then, after a beat or two, she sighs, _loudly_.

"I want some _Lucky Charms_."

* * *

Blaine holds the microphone out reluctantly, unsure of how he even ended up in this position.

One minute he's on a short list to interview the President about his surrogate child and the next…the next he's debating whether or not it would be appropriate to tell the man he's interviewing that flossing before going on national television isn't a bad idea.

Neither is showering.

Or a mint.

"I'm telling you man. Me and Pauline was just sitting right ova' there," Donald, the man, says, pointing at a gaggle of trees a few blocks away from the White House. "Wasn't we Pauline?"

"Mmhmm, that's right Donny," the twitchy lady standing next to him chimes.

"Standin' right therr n' I was just about t' light my...uh, cigarette," Donny coughs, looking into the camera momentarily, "and then, right when the flame was startin' to take, BOOM! It's like a fireball exploded."

"Well it was more like BA-BOOM!" Pauline corrects thoughtfully.

"Okay, there you have it folks," Blaine says, turning back to the camera and patiently ignoring the couple now waving enthusiastically behind him, "From the mouths of two eye witnesses mere blocks away from the Capital building: Boom."

Pauline jumps in the frame behind him, hand on his shoulder. "BA-BOOM!"

"Cut," Blaine says, glaring at his cameraman as the guy chuckles. "Did you catch that?" he says smartly, stepping away from his subjects and heading towards the news van.

"Ran outta tape somewhere after the first BA-BOOM," the guy smirks.

"I know you think you're funny Tanaka but trust me, you only _look_ it," Blaine says, clamoring into the passenger seat.

"Aww, c'mon Blaine. I'm just teasin'. Pretty soon the boss'll forget about the Interview the Could've Been and you'll be back to posing with political posers," Ken explains, hulking his large frame into the driver's seat. "Until then, you and I are on filler duty."

Blaine slumps back into his seat, sulking. "Yeah," he mumbles, staring forlornly at the nation's' capital, its flags fluttering at half mast.

* * *

Finn stands in his suit, the slight tremor in his hand eased by the ballpoint pen he's clutching.

Outside this small foyer, voices are hushed yet curious, somber yet excited, and he's…he's about to crap a brick.

"We're ready whenever you are Mr. Vice-President," one of the newly-appointed service agent says. Finn can tell he's new because he's not wearing sunglasses.

They pretty much always wear sunglasses.

"I'm," Finn starts, inhaling deeply, "I'm ready." Tapping his flag pin with his pinky twice – his good luck habit – Finn steps around the darkened corridor entrance and into the fray.

"It's on!" Sugar yells, flapping into the conference room and flicking on the flat screen.

Rachel glances up from Puck's laptop, Santana huffing as she does so.

"Just let me watch the presser," Rachel says, even rolling her eyes a little, "then I'll get back to spying on government officials."

Jake chokes on his mouthful of coffee, abruptly sitting up. "Um, excuse me? What are you doing?"

"Bruh," Artie says, eyes transfixed to the television, "Stop asking questions. Especially ones you don't really want to know the answers to."

"Relax," Rachel says, "Government's internet security is extremely cryptic, okay? It's virtually impossible to crack."

"That…doesn't really answer my question," Jake says slowly.

"Shut up!" Santana barks, quieting the room. "Finn's on."

" _Good Morning my fellow Americans. I won't mince words on this morning as I am sure you are all anxious about what has happened here. And I know there are numerous theories and rumors going around what happened as well. I'm here to clear the fog and give you, the people of this country, what you deserve: the truth."_

Finn sighs, squaring his shoulders and looking directly into the camera.

" _The truth is that while President Evans, the First Lady, and his mother, Mrs. Evans were seated to dinner an explosion went off in the presidential dining room. Emergency personnel were on the scene immediately and were able to rescue both Mrs. Evans and a decorated secret service woman. Unfortunately, lost in the explosion were white house cook Delano Scott, sous chef Melanie Brown, aides Dorrie Cox, Bo Warren, and Clair Jiroux."_

Finn pauses again, pressing his lips together hard and swallowing hard to clear the knot in his throat.

" _Also lost…my dear good friends White House Chief of Staff Mercedes Jones, First Lady Brittany Pierce-Evans, and President Samuel Evans."_

* * *

Sue stares blankly at her television, her cup of coffee over-flowing as she pours sugar into it.

* * *

Kurt's hands fly to his mouth, his eyes instantly filling with tears as he stares at the small bookcase television.

* * *

Sugar squeaks.

Artie quickly stands and turns off the television.

"That's…that's not…Right?"

Jake cuts his eyes to Santana who's just standing over Rachel, still, motionless.

"Rachel," she starts, "break the firewall…now!"

This time Jake says nothing when Rachel's fingers start clicking at the keyboard.

"If Puck were here this would probably go a lot smoother," Rachel says, talking aloud to herself like she tends to do when she's anxious. "He'd probably just click three buttons and _bingo_. Hacked."

"You okay, boss?" Artie asks, his eyes carefully examining Santana's whose are patently avoiding his.

"There," she says, pointing at the screen, "What's that?"

"It's a dummy access point," Rachel answers. "Systems like there use a bunch of dummy access points to throw off hackers although…hmmm…this _is_ the first one like this I've come across…"

Sugar, Artie, and Santana all look at one another, then back to Rachel. "Click it."

Instantly, the screen clears and folder after folder pop up, each one labeled and detailed in description.

"Bingo," Rachel breathes.

 _KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK_

"The jig is up!" Sugar shouts, tossing her handful of papers into the air and shoving Artie between herself and the door. "Every woman for herself!"

"Who the hell is that?" Artie asks.

"I don't know," Santana says slowly, narrowing her eyes at the door as she nears it.

Jake walks up beside her, his service weapon already drawn. "Open it," he directs her, "slowly."

Santana steadies her breathing, then, without hesitation, snatches the door open, startling the woman on the other side, fist raised in the air and poised to knock again.

"Ah hell," Santana says, rolling her eyes and taking a step back.

"Senator Fabray?" Jake asks, lowering his weapon, "What are – why are you here?"

"Um," Quinn swallows, wringing her hands together, "I, um, need help and I didn't know who else to go to."

"Quinn, look, you're my client and all but I don't have time to deal with whatever non-attached bachelor you've managed to slip and fall onto. Now, if you'd please," Santana says, starting to usher her back out the door, but Quinn shrugs off her grip, turning back around.

"While I don't appreciate your insinuations, I'll let that go as I'm in no position to argue."

"Right you are," Santana says, pushing again, this time managing to get the other woman to the door even though Quinn is struggling against her, "So, if you could just-"

"I know who bombed the White House!" Quinn shouts suddenly.

Santana stops pushing. "What did you say?" she asks quietly, her eyes studying Quinn when the woman turns around again.

"Well, I'm not entirely sure who but I have information about who it could be, information that I only have because I've been working for them…" Quinn trails off as Santana starts to laugh lightly. "What…what's so funny?"

"You might want to brace yourself," Artie tells her, waiting for it.

Quinn's eyebrows scrunch, "Brace myself for wha-"

 _POW!_

Quinn falls to the floor like a sack of potatoes, her hands darting up to cover her face as her rapidly filling eyes sweep up to glare at Santana.

Santana, who's standing over her, literally quivering with rage.

Sugar, apparently convinced there is no longer a threat, peers down at Quinn from over Santana's shoulder.

"You got knocked the hell out!"

* * *

Ryder shifts in bed a bit, the cheap sheets underneath him scratching uncomfortably at his skin.

If his calculations are correct, he's only been asleep for…three hours because he can hear Mrs. Edmonds broken coffeemaker gurgling from across the hall and any minute Mr. Edmonds is going to say-

"When are you going to get rid of this thing?!"

"I've tried, but you keep finding your way back in!"

"Colorful neighbors."

Ryder jumps out of bed, one arm flailing back and flinging his blanket to the floor.

Sitting along his bedside, Puck barely blinks in response. "Easy or hard?"

"What are – what did – how did you get in here?" Ryder whisper-shrieks, scooting as far away from Puck as possible, not mindful of his appearance.

"You sleep naked?"

Ryder looks down at himself, snatching his blankets up for cover. "I get hot," he defends meekly before shaking his head slightly. "What do you wants?"

Puck smirks a little. "I need you."

"No way man. Look, I don't want anything to do with everything, I don't know nothing about something, and I have not spoken with someone or anyone. You do _not_ need me."

"Okay. Hard it is," Puck says, standing quickly. Within seconds he has a gun drawn and is aiming it at a quivering Ryder, a stack of bills in his other hand. "I need groceries so I need you. Okay?"

"Y-yeah," Ryder stutters, "That's t-totally fine."

* * *

"Mr. Hummel?"

Kurt's still staring at the mute television, eyes still focused on the constantly rolling scroll at the bottom.

The one that still reads _President Evans Killed in White House Explosion._

"Mr. Hummel?"

"Yes," Kurt croaks quietly, before clearing his throat. "Yes," he repeats, voice firmer.

The aide smiles at him kindly. "You have a call. Senator Fabray?"

"Oh. Okay. Thank you," he says, waiting for the woman to step back out of the office before taking the call.

He sighs heavily, bracing himself.

"Mrs. Jones's office," he manages in a professional tone, "This is Kurt Hummel speaking."

" _Hi…Kurt_ ," Quinn starts haltingly, " _I…uh, had a difficult time tracking you down. Your office_ -"

"Is out of commission? Yes, I'm aware. How can I be of service Senator Fabray?"

" _I need to speak with you about something, Mr. Hummel. It's really important…It's about Bobby_."

Kurt raises an eyebrow. "…I'm sorry but aren't we talking now or…"

" _Oh yes. Sorry. I need to speak with you in person_."

Kurt sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, okay fine. Where – are you in your office?"

" _No, meet me at Pennsylvania and Henry._ "

"I'm sure I don't need to remind you of this but there's a lot going on here. I can't just–"

" _It's_ urgent _Kurt. Don't make me use your middle name Hummel. Please?_ "

"Okay, but I'll need an hour."

Quinn gulps, eyes darting warily from Santana's beyond pissed face and the frowning others.

"Make it sooner."

* * *

Sam twists around on the floor, shuffling his body back and forth in an attempt to loosen the plastic ties around his wrists.

"What the hell are these things made of anyway," he grunts, pulling his arms apart as far as he can before slumping in exhaustion, "Kryptonite?"

"Kryptonite would mean implying that you are Superman and I'm telling you Sam, you ain't him," Mercedes deadpans, already having given up on her quest to get free.

Sam huffs, his unkempt hair falling into his eyes a little bit. "Well, I have to try _something_. We can't just wait here for him to come back."

"Look, I want out of here as much as you two do," Mercedes starts, letting her legs stretch back out against the dusty floorboards, "But, the crazy dude hasn't killed us or anything. As far as I can tell, he's the _only_ reason any of us are alive."

At Sam's confused look, Mercedes just twists her lip at him. "You think it was a coincidence that ninja guy showed up just in time for the explosion?"

Sam looks at Brittany and she merely shrugs, unsure.

"I'm not saying he's the most trustworthy guy in the world, but, as far as I can tell, he isn't necessarily the biggest threat to us," Mercedes explains.

"I think he works for Santana, actually," Brittany offers, cocking her head, "Or…he's related to her? He wasn't really clear."

Sam and Mercedes both stare at her. "What?!"

Before Brittany can answer, the familiar crank of a large lock being manipulated sounds throughout the space and very shortly after, Puck's shadow looms over the three of them.

Only, this time, he's not alone. Someone's quivering just in front of him, a pillowcase draped over their head.

Puck snatches the case off.

"Ow, man. I have- I have hair you know?" Ryder says, rubbing at the now stinging spot on the crown of his head. He shifts the paper bag full of groceries in his arms before finally looking around.

Ryder drops the bag.

"Fuck me."

Puck, back to staring at the wall, doesn't even turn around when he speaks. "Hard pass."

"President Evans, Mrs. President Evans," Ryder barely says, struggling to find air. "Oh my – everybody thinks you guys are…and Mrs. Jones. Am I…should I like bow or something?"

"Please don't," Mercedes says.

"What's in the bag?" Brittany asks.

* * *

Kurt walks into the low-lit restaurant, just as Quinn had instructed him too.

It was hell making it out of that White House ridiculousness but Kurt's a lot craftier than he looks, and, it doesn't hurt that being the White House press secretary means living in the press longue.

His alibi is airtight.

The patrons inside the diner pay him no mind, all wearing somber expressions as their eyes stay fixed to the small, tube television mounted in the diner's corner.

Kurt averts his gaze when Vice President Hudson starts to speak.

He can't see or hear that again.

Gratefully enough, he's barely adjusted to his surroundings when a woman's frantic waving catches his eye.

Lowering his D&G sunglasses, Kurt can't help but grin wryly as he approaches her.

"Channeling our inner unabomber are we?" he says sardonically, looking over her attire.

Quinn peers up at him from behind thick black sunglasses, her mop of blonde hair barely visible beneath a hulking – though pink – hoodie.

"Do you really think using the word bomb is wise to do right now?"

"Good point," Kurt says, sliding into the booth with a sobered expression. "What did you want to talk to me abo-wha-"

Kurt cuts himself short when four people suddenly slide into their booth, two on Quinn's side and two on his own.

"Santana?" he asks, recognizing her face out of the lot instantly as she sits across from him, "What the hell is going on?"

"We need your help, Kurt," Santana says, casually looking over a diner menu.

"I'm going to order some curly fries," Sugar says, seated to the right of Kurt, "Anybody else want anything?"

Artie, to her right, puts his hands over her own and lowers the menu, shaking his head at her silently.

"Help with what?" Kurt asks, confused.

"The Senator here," Santana says, jerking her head to the in Quinn's direction, "has gotten herself into some deep shit. And, honestly, for right now, the less you know the better."

"Then what am I here for?"

"We need your access," Santana explains.

"Access to what?" Kurt asks and Santana merely widens her eyes a little, silently imploring him to catch up. "No way."

"Kurt-"

"Are you insane, Santana," Kurt hisses, leaning across the table toward her. "The White House has exploded, the President is dead and you want me to-"

"It's the only way we can get to the bottom of this Kurt," Santana cuts him off, her tone authoritative. "Now, you and I know, that with the security in place there, there's no way this could've been pulled off without inside help. My associate here," she says, nodding at Rachel, "she's found me the breadcrumbs, I just need you to get me into the witch's house."

"Santana," Kurt shakes his head, "You know there is _no way_ I can get you into the White House right now. They're barely letting people _out_." He looks to Quinn. "How did you get out?"

"Cramps," Quinn deadpans.

"Look, I don't need to physically get in," Santana explains, rolling her eyes at Quinn a little. "Where is it, Rachel?"

Rachel smoothly places a notebook onto the table, an ink pen clipped onto its cover. She slides it over to Kurt.

Kurt stares at it. "What, do you want me to collect autographs?"

"This, Mr. Hummel, is the latest in technology," Rachel says, picking up the writing tool. "To the untrained eye, it's just your average ink pen, but…press this button right here and…"

The tip of the pen retracts, releasing one black, microscopic bead. It rolls around for a second and stops, clinking against the prong of Kurt's fork. "What is it?"

"That's a NOVA bead," Rachel says, eyes large but then she realizes no one is nearly as impressed as she is. "It's basically the world's smallest super computer. This pen has four others inside. I just need to get a couple of these bad boys near the mainframe and tu casa blanca es mi casa blanca."

"Trust me, Kurt," Santana says, "There's something afoul going on up there and I don't trust anyone in the White House to handle it. This is the only way. Now, will you help us?"

Kurt presses his lips together, shakily picking up the pen. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

* * *

Brittany's happily munching away on her box of Lucky Charms.

She's only got the one arm free. Actually, she, Mercedes, and Sam are all tethered to separate corners of the room now because Sam took an inadvertent swipe at Puck when they guy offered him some Doritos.

In all fairness, it was the gross Chipotle Cheddar kind but still. Any chances they may have had to team up and take him on have been trimmed dramatically.

But, hey, at least she's still got her magically delicious cereal.

Ryder, handcuffed and hogtied, sits slumped against a wall, midway between Sam and Mercedes.

Puck, slowly chewing on a Pay Day candy bar, nods at the Styrofoam bowl of untouched noodles sitting in front of Mercedes. "You should eat."

"You should bite me," Mercedes fires back, darkly.

"You guys are the worst captives ever," Puck grumbles, rolling his eyes. "I'm just saying. I don't know when I'll be able to get food for us again so you should eat."

"How is my kid?" Sam barks at him, kicking out his leg in anger. "My mother? What the hell is happening outside of this musty ass closet of a room? You're insane if you think I can eat while I'm sitting here, literally, in the dark."

"Do you work for Santana?" Mercedes finally asks. Puck's eyes flash wildly. "Because Brittany said-"

"What did _Brittany_ say?" Puck interrupts.

All eyes shift over to the blonde who gulps down a mouthful of marshmallows before responding. "It's just…you called her boss when you brought her here and I saw you at her offices that time and I just…well, I'm hoping you're a good guy."

Puck blinks, his right eye twitching just slightly and though he's looking at Brittany, it doesn't seem as if he's _seeing_ her. "I am…I'm trying to stay good but…" he brings a finger to his head and pokes at his temple, "there's some not so good things floating around up here."

The captives in the room all shared nervous, cautious glances.

"If you work for Santana," Brittany starts slowly, keeping her voice quiet, "then you _are_ a good guy."

Puck blinks again, his pupils dilating and fixing on Brittany. At first, it's quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment and then-

"Bobby is staying with Kurt, at least for now. Mrs. Evans is in the hospital, in stable condition. She doesn't remember much about the accident, though. Vice President Hudson is who has been speaking to the public. As far as anyone knows, you all perished in the explosion. It's only a matter of time before forensic evidence confirms otherwise. I'm hoping that by that time, I'll have a bead on whoever is responsible, but babysitting the three –" Puck looks over at Ryder, "four of you, is complicating matters. I don't want to risk putting anybody else in danger but, I need help. And yes, I do work for Santana Lopez, although, none of this was her idea."

Mercedes and Brittany look at one another, gob-smacked, while Sam just stares hard at Puck, calculating.

"It had to have been an inside job," he finally says, jabbing his plastic spoon into his bowlful of noodles violently. "Someone with knowledge of how things work within and around the White House."

Puck nods slowly. "That's what I'm thinking."

"And someone with financial means as well," Mercedes adds. "Unfortunately, the almighty dollar has been proven to break allegiances."

"Maybe someone with ties outside of the country," Brittany suggests, biting her lip. "I mean, God bless America and all that but we're not the most popular country anymore. We have our enemies."

Ryder clears his throat. "Don't forget asshole," he says, sitting up a little more.

"Um, excuse me?" Mercedes raises an eyebrow at him.

"I'm just saying," Ryder shrugs, "Most bad guys are assholes."

"Ryder," Puck says.

"Yeah?" Ryder asks.

"Shut up."

* * *

Santana turns away from the dry erase board and looks over the group of people assembled before her, and then she notices Jake.

"What is your problem?"

Jake, arms stubbornly folded across his chest, "I don't appreciate being told to wait in the car like a toddler."

"Get over it. You stand out like a sore thumb, okay? Plus, you've got to be on someone's radar seeing as how you've been booted from service for an indefinite amount of time," Santana explains, dismissively as best. "I don't have time for your _feelings_. That goes for all of you, so keep them to yourselves, am I clear?"

Artie, Sugar, Quinn, and Rachel nod immediately. Jake begrudgingly follows suit.

"Okay then," Santana says, uncapping a dry erase marker and shutting off the main light in the room. The dry erase board behind her glows with invisible marker and Santana's thankful the lights are off.

"Ebitt, the Hamilton, Fogo…" Sugar reads, squinting her eyes. "Are those restaurants?"

Santana clears her throat, trying not to let her mind slip back to the millions of lists she'd compiled trying to plan the perfect first date for her and Brittany. "Um, let me erase those," she says quickly, wiping the board clean frantically.

When she turns back around, Rachel and Artie are looking at her carefully, but she presses on, ignoring their concern. "Let's start with the facts."

"Fact," Artie states, "the presidency is the most coveted job in D. C. Leader of the free world has one hell of a nice ring to it. I'd say all of congress looks good for this." He turns to Quinn with a shrug, "Sorry, Senator Fabray."

"Also fact, most politicians are pussies and couldn't pull something like this off if they tried," Sugar contends. "Case in point, Senator Fabray."

"Hey!" Quinn bristles.

"Asperger's," Sugar whispers.

"What about Judge Sylvester?" Artie speaks up again. "I still say she looks good for this."

"Sue's nuts but she's not _this_ nuts," Santana says.

"I don't think Sue's been involved for quite some time, though, she is who first recommended I get in touch with this person," Quinn supplies.

"We'll asterisk Sue, then," Santana says, underlining her name. "We'll pick through her digital records and if anything looks fishy, she jumps to the top of the list."

"Okay, motive won't get us anywhere fast," Sugar says. "How about means?"

"Well, I for one contend that whoever is behind this had to have had a substantial amount of fiscal resources," Rachel starts. "The explosion itself and the sophistication of the device suggests manufacturing process that would have been close to hundreds of thousands of dollars. Compound that with the fact that this was covert, precise, and neatly carried out without so much as a murmur of anticipation means that this person paid mightily to have their tracks covered."

"Rachel's right," Santana says, scribbling dollar signs on the board. "Whoever is behind this has to have major bank. Why don't you look at the financial records of the major political players? Dig deep, Rachel. Like, overseas accounts deep."

"On it," Rachel says, traipsing off to the computer room.

"All that's left is opportunity," Jake says, looking at the notes on Santana's board. "And honestly, with everything you've just said, only one person seems to be checking all the boxes for me."

Jake stands up, joining Santana near the board and asking for the marker silently. He scribbles for a moment and when he steps away, Sugar's jaw drops.

"No way," she says.

"Yes way."

"No," Quinn says, shaking her head vehemently. "You're wrong. That's his best friend."

"Yeah Jake," Santana starts uneasily, though her mind is already working to put the pieces together, "I don't know…"

"Look," Jake starts, looking at them all, "It all adds up. He's got access so there's your opportunity. He's oil money so we know he has the means. And, and this is truly telling, he's currently _acting_ President. What more motive do you need."

Quinn falls back against her chair, aghast. "That's just…it's insane."

"I'm telling you," Jake says, capping the marker with finality, "our best suspect is Vice President Finn Hudson."

* * *

Santana steps into the quiet apartment with labored footsteps.

She immediately kicks off her heels and sinks down into the plush carpet lining the hallway.

Today has been one hell of a day.

The stress of it is all getting to her, and, though she knows the truth, nothing gets her stomach twisting more than the fact that, had Puck not intervened, the words flashing across every screen, headlining every newspaper, and coming from everyone's lips would be true.

It's that knowledge that weighs heavily on her, that and the fact that she's not okay, even in this apartment – whereabouts known to Puck and Puck alone.

She's not okay because Brittany's not okay and, for the moment, there's not a damn thing Santana can do about that.

Her team is about four stories above her, all in various states of near-delirium and flat out exhaustion. They'd worked every angle imaginable and still, Jake's solution seems to be the most sound, the most realistic, the most obvious.

That's why Santana knows he's wrong.

With a sigh, Santana finds her way to the bathroom and turns on the tap for the tub, letting it fill quickly with the hottest water she can manage.

The pickings are slim for this hide-away hole so there's nothing really to clean up with except for a bar of mild soap but Santana's grateful to be able to rinse away some of the yuck of today, if only for a moment.

In the process of slipping off her clothes, Santana's startled by an abrupt ringing, but her muted cellphone lies haphazardly on the back lid of the toilet.

This ringing is coming from elsewhere.

Instantly rankled, Santana slips her shirt back over her shoulders, reaching for her cellphone and the loaded-22 she made sure to retrieve from the locked cabinet drawer of her desk. "Who's there?" she calls out, forgetting momentarily that Puck informed her to never make known her present location.

 _Calling out into darkened, quiet area, is the easiest way to get caught Santana._

The ringing continues as Santana nears the dusty couch, draped in a gray and fraying duvet. The slightest flash of light shines from the cushioned surface and without thinking, Santana grabs it, flipping the phone open.

"Puck?" she asks, breathlessly.

" _Hi Santana_."

Santana's whole demeanor shifts, her shoulders losing their tense set as she slumps onto the back of the couch. "Brittany," she whispers, tears coming to her eyes instantly.

" _Yeah. It's me."_

"How are you-"

" _Puck called. He got tired of answering my questions, I think_."

"Is this safe?"

" _He's scrambling the signal or something. I don't know. How are you?"_

"How am I? How are _you_? You're the person I'm worried about."

" _Oh, honey I'm fine. I'm fine. Puck is…he's doing the best he can_."

"We're going to figure this out, Britt. We're going to find out who did this and then you can come home. And we can…we can _be_ together Brittany. No more waiting. No more games. Screw Sam."

" _I want that more than anything, San. But I want you safe too. You have to promise me you won't get into this stuff. The things Puck has found out, well, they're pretty crazy and dangerous_."

"I don't care, Britt. Let me fix this, for you. For us."

" _I don't want you to be my hero, Santana. I just want you to be mine. And that can't happen if you're hurt or…or worse_."

Santana sighs, biting her lip. The mixture of emotions running through her is unreal. She feels helpless and angry and brave, but, more than that she feels love…unyielding love.

" _Promise me you won't play the hero, Santana. Can you? Promise?_ " Brittany's voice quietly asks across the line.

"I…I promise," Santana gulps, looking straight ahead into the darkness.

" _Good_ ," Brittany breathes out, sighing in relief. " _That's good. Now, can I tell you about how much cereal I ate today, because it's kind of ridiculous_."

"Go ahead, sweetheart," Santana says, letting her weight settle more comfortably against the couch.

It's only after a minute or two of chatting with Brittany that she finally uncrosses her fingers.

* * *

Madison, even after discovering the fa-reaking President, doesn't get any of the cool jobs.

It's ridiculous.

Abby, some girl who's only been on staff for about a month gets to scrub in on the autopsy, but Madison?

What does Madison get to do?

Teeth.

And not even the actual teeth either.

X-rays.

She flips the small card against the table, annoyed even more when it slaps against the metal surface.

"Unbelievable," she mutters, "You find the president and they put you on grunt work. I mean, comparing dental records?!"

She snatches up the small brown envelope labeled XLVI and lets the plaques inside slide onto her work table.

"Like any dolt with more than two brain cells can't match-"

Madison cuts herself off, her eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline.

She holds the placards up against the backlight board, the one labeled specimen 24B just under the other but even without close examination she can see it clear as day.

These two x-rays are not the same.


End file.
